Chapter 8

Elena's POV

The penthouse had become my official address within seventy-two hours of returning from Vegas.

Arthur had made it clear that while we didn't need to share a bedroom, I was required to live under the same roof—part of maintaining the appearance of a real marriage, he'd said, though I suspected it had more to do with his need to monitor the assets he'd acquired.

But my old DUMBO loft still held three years' worth of accumulated belongings that needed sorting.

Arthur insisted on accompanying me personally, which struck me as unnecessary until I remembered that every aspect of my former life now required his vetting.

We arrived at the building just after ten on a Saturday morning.

Driver James was waiting in the idling Mercedes, while Arthur followed me up the narrow stairs to my cheap apartment on the fourth floor.

"This is it," I said, pushing the door open.

Sunlight streamed through the oversized factory windows, illuminating the single room where my bed sat ten feet from my kitchen counter.

"You lived here the whole time?" Arthur asked, his gaze moving from the second-hand sofa to the makeshift desk.

"Only after I got the job at Aegis," I said, unable to keep the self-mockery out of my voice.

"Before that, I was in a basement studio in Bushwick with three roommates and a kitchen I shared with actual rats. This was my upgrade. My 'I finally made it' apartment."

Arthur crossed to the bookshelf.

He paused at a framed photo I'd forgotten existed—me and Julian at last year's MIT alumni mixer, both of us laughing, his arm around my shoulders.

I watched Arthur's posture shift, his shoulders drawing back as he lifted the frame and studied it.

"You kept this," he said.

I was sorting through a stack of textbooks on the shelf. "I kept a lot of things. That's kind of the problem we're here to solve." Something in his silence made me turn around.

He was still holding the photo, his thumb pressed against the glass over Julian's face, the muscle in his jaw tight.

"Do you want me to pack that one, or are you planning to stare at it until it spontaneously combusts?"

Arthur set the frame down, then picked it up again and walked to the trash can. He held it there, suspended, looking at me as if testing whether I'd stop him.

When I didn't move, he let it drop.

"Feel better?" I asked, shoving a book into a box.

"Not particularly." He crossed his arms. "I'm trying to understand something, Elena. I need to know whether you're still in love with him."I straightened, facing him with a box clutched against my chest.

"Why does it matter? You got what you wanted. I signed the contract. I showed up for the wedding. I'm wearing your ring."

I held up my left hand. "What difference does it make what I feel about Julian?"

"It makes every difference in the world." Arthur closed the distance between us and took the box from my hands.

"Because if you're doing this while still wanting him, then I'm not your husband. I'm just the punishment you're inflicting on yourself for not being enough to make him stay."

The accuracy of that drove the air from my lungs.

I looked away, focusing on the window and the slice of East River visible between buildings.

When I finally spoke, I kept my gaze fixed on the water.

"What I felt for Julian was real," I said, and heard Arthur's sharp inhale.

"I spent four years believing we were building something that mattered. But what I feel now is also real. The part where I know it's completely over. The part where I understand that whatever we had wasn't strong enough to survive the first real test." I turned back to face him. "So yes, the feelings were real. And yes, the ending is also real. Both things can be true at the same time."

Arthur studied me, then something in his face shifted.

"All right," he said finally. "Then let's finish packing."

We worked in relative silence after that.

By noon we'd reduced my entire life to six boxes and two suitcases.

James loaded everything into the Mercedes, and I did one final sweep of the empty apartment before pulling the door shut.

"Ready?" Arthur asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm ready."

We were halfway back to Manhattan when Arthur's phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, then shifted to face me. "There's an event next Friday. Private charity dinner, about thirty guests, mostly finance and tech sector people. I need you there."

I felt my shoulders tense, but Arthur continued. "It's completely private—no press, no photographers, just the inner circle. The attendees are people who understand discretion. It won't interfere with your work schedule. The dinner starts at eight, and we can leave whenever you want. And no one outside that room will know about our arrangement. The hidden-marriage clause stays intact."

"What's the dress code?" I asked.

"Black tie, but the women tend to interpret that creatively." Arthur showed me photos from last year's event. "James will take you to Bergdorf's tomorrow afternoon. Pick whatever you want. Multiple options, in case you're not sure what works."

"I'll figure it out." I said.

The next afternoon, James collected me at two o'clock sharp.

A personal shopper met me at Bergdorf's entrance, already briefed on the event and my measurements.

She led me through the evening wear section, pulling options that ranged from understated elegance to creative interpretation.

I was standing in front of a three-way mirror, studying how a deep blue silk gown moved when I walked, when I caught sight of a familiar figure in the glass.

Claire Harrington stood ten feet away, examining a rack of cocktail dresses.

She looked exactly as I remembered from Julian's apartment—perfectly styled, expensively dressed, radiating casual confidence.

Our eyes met in the mirror.

She set down the dress she'd been holding and turned to face me directly, her smile sharp.

"Elena," she said, my name emerging with precisely calibrated warmth that contained no actual heat. "What a surprise."